


Everything Under the Sun

by musiclily88



Series: Wasted Youth// There Wasn't Much to Waste [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Past Underage Sex, Porn, Teen Pregnancy, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:59:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had something to focus on, at least. He chose this, he reminded himself, and it would do for now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything Under the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> All titles (and the lyric snippet at the beginning) taken from BNL’s “Everything Old is New Again.”
> 
> Writing this has been…a lesson in self-knowledge, to an extent. The process has been a bit taxing and kind of emotional, and the whole story really hits me hard on a stupidly personal level. PLEASE BE KIND TO ME and I apologize if this portion doesn't measure up to the first bit of the series.
> 
> As ever, I appreciate your comments, criticism, and thoughts xx

_“We hug and we kiss // we sit and make lists // we drink and I bandage your wrists.”_

Somewhere along the line, it became a thing he did: waited on the bonnet of his car for Liam to walk by, all slow grins and easy laughs. When pressed, he would deny that Liam _brightened his day_ because Liam wasn’t his fucking boyfriend; he was just a really good lay. He was someone capable of distracting himself from his listlessness, from the lazy attention he ever paid to his life.

So he paid attention to Liam’s frankly _beautiful_ dick, and if he woke up sore four days a week, well then. He had something to focus on, at least. He chose this, he reminded himself, and it would do for now.

He rarely asked about the scrapes and welts he would occasionally find on Liam’s chest and back, because really: they weren’t here to save each other from anything. They were simply one another’s open port in a stormy sea, a warm mouth whispering _you’ll do for now._

Louis never met Liam’s girlfriend, though he occasionally saw her in the corridors or behind the wheel of her car. “She’s cute,” he told Liam once, noting the way his eyes darkened at the statement.

“I know,” was his response. And that was that.

Their conversations—made up of muttered curses, teasing remarks, and only the barest small talk—left few lingering effects on either of them. Nothing lingered quite as effectively as the blackberry-dark bruises on Louis’ chest and Liam’s thighs. For Louis, nothing lingered quite like the memory of Liam yanking his hair as he came down Louis’ throat.

They never got off together during school—for Liam really was invested in keeping his scholarship, a notion that was utterly foreign to Louis. He himself barely put in the effort it took to copy down Liam’s chemistry answers and pass them off as his own. Sometimes Louis would pester him during chem lab, whispering filthy suggestions as to what they could be doing if only Liam weren’t so studious.

Louis caught the curious glances that Liam’s friends gave him, and it made him want to push harder. It made him want to frustrate everyone, to make them so uncomfortable that they finally had to look away. For all Louis was an attention whore, he hated having people look at him. He knew beyond any doubt that they were impressed by the ridiculous trappings of his life: the sparkling Rolex, the glossy haircuts, the shiny Mercedes. They were impressed by the fresh coat of paint his stepfather had put over his life, as if objects could really bandage over what amounted to a sucking chest wound.

Because that’s what Louis knew he was missing. He knew he didn’t have a heart.

Hell, he barely had a functioning brain most days, too blown-out on fun designer drugs and the after-effects of weeks spent drinking. Instead he had a cock, and he let it do most of his thinking for him.

Rarely had his dick led him astray. It was one of the few things he had come to count on. It was the only reason he was passing chemistry—which was in turn the main reason he hadn’t yet been kicked out of the house. Of all the times his stepfather had taken a sudden liking to something, this was atypical; it was atypical of his concern to be about _Louis._ But he had abruptly taken to caring about grades and education and academic performance; luckily he had no way of know that Louis was sleeping his way to the top. 

So he frequently waited on the front of his car like a moony schoolboy, panting at the sight of Liam from across the carpark. 

_In for a penny, in for a pound,_ Louis thought, sliding off his car with practiced grace. Liam gave him a fast grin and extricated himself from the group of his friends. Louis saw one of his friends roll his eyes, while another gave him a playful slug to the arm.

“Your friends don’t like me,” Louis pointed out coolly as he opened the drivers-side door of his car.

“My friends don’t know you,” Liam countered as he settled into the passenger seat.

“S’pose that’s true. But they don’t like me.” Louis started the ignition. “They know I’m going to ruin you.”

“Yeah? Well then.” Liam shot him another grin. “What are you waiting for?”

And if Louis bit down extra-hard into Liam’s skin, if he stared too long at the welts on Liam’s chest, if he gripped too fiercely at Liam’s hips, it was because he finally wanted to possess something worth having.

***  
“I can drive you to work, you know.”

“You are entirely capable of driving, I’m aware.” Liam stood in Louis’ room, pulling his shirt over his head. “Which is a godsend, really, because you drive like a bit of a nutcase as it is. Leadfoot.”

“I resent that. My driving skills are impeccable.” Louis folded his arms and placed them behind his head, full aware what a spectacle he was making of his bare chest.

“I work for my dad,” Liam said, turning his back to Louis. The words fell like a weight into the center of the room. “And I’d like to make it out of my teens alive and with as few broken ribs as possible.”

“I was just being polite.”

“I know. And now I want you to stop being polite.” Liam turned back around. “You’re not good at it anyway.”

“How very dare you. I am absolutely perfect at everything I do.”

“What is it you do, then? Enlighten me.”

“I make people’s day brighter just by existing.”

“But what do you _do?_ What do you _like_ to do?”

 

And that was it, wasn’t it? That’s what it boiled down to, essentially. He’d either done it all or he’d had the chance to do it all, and really nothing ever stuck. Nothing ever latched onto him and yanked him out of the cloudy, grey-tinged malaise.

Nothing. He liked nothing. No, that sounded wrong, because he didn’t like nothing—he didn’t like _anything._ He didn’t enjoy doing nothing or being nothing or anything at all. Nothing was all that came to mind.

 

“I don’t know,” Louis breathed out, half trying to play it off and half sick of lying about the fact that he was fed up with absolutely everything. And where did Liam get off, staring at him with his stupid-pretty eyes and pillowed lips, asking him to do some fucking _soul-searching?_ He hadn’t signed up for a therapist, he’d signed up for a shag. Liam of all people should have understood that.

He never signed up for big chats in the dark, never agreed to discuss existential angst before kissing away each other’s fears. He knew that stuff was crap meant to look meaningful in shitty indie films. He knew that no one could save him.

“I don’t know,” he repeated.

“Hm.” Liam nodded. “I respect that you didn’t go for a dirty double-entendre there.” He rubbed one hand over the light stubble along his jaw.

“Cheers, mate. Felt a bit too obvious,” Louis replied, relishing the fact that Liam’s eyes were raking up and down his prone figure. He hadn’t propped himself up at the head of his bed for nothing.

“Yeah, well. I enjoy doing you too, for the record.”

“Obviously. I told you I’m good at everything I do.”

“But apparently you don’t do anything.”

“Drop it, all right?” Louis flopped backwards heavily, head landing onto the pillow with a bounce.

“Yeah, fine. Listen, rich boy, you need me to tuck you in before I go? Or do you have an employee to do that for you?”

“I don’t let the help this close to my genitals. And I expect you to swaddle me.” Louis quirked up an eyebrow.

“You’re a dumbass.”

“Good thing I think with my dick, then.”

***  
Louis never let himself be consumed by anything. He wasn’t entirely sure he knew how to be consumed, actually. He was vaguely intrigued about finding out what that meant—as interested as he could be in anything—and at this point, that meant asking Liam after a marathon fuck session.

“Do you love her, you know? Your girlfriend?” he murmured, one arm wrapped around Liam’s thick shoulders. Liam was all broad shoulders, crinkly eyes, and insane muscles; he was meticulously pulling apart Louis’ seams, and it was unnerving to put it mildly.

Liam huffed a breath out, pulling on a lock of Louis’ hair. “What’s love, then?”

Louis considered this, biting onto Liam’s earlobe. “I dunno. Been told it’s like a burning sensation?”

“No, I think that’s herpes, actually,” Liam countered thoughtfully, planting a kiss on Louis’ jaw. “Which I don’t have, by the way.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Louis scrubbed a hand through Liam’s hair, biting down o a small smile. “So you in love with her, then?”

“No. I’m not.”

Louis nodded. “Love is like a bone bruise.”

Liam exhaled an approximation of a laugh. “I really don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, mate.”

“Painful and dark. And lasts a long time. Hurts when you prod it. Kinda pretty.”

“You’re an idiot. I’ve had my share of bone bruises and they’re not worth it,” Liam heaved, rolling away from Louis slightly.

“Good thing I’m pretty enough to make up for it.” Louis, for his part, sensed minefields well ahead of time and avoided them the way he avoided spiders and naked women. “Do you want wine? I want wine.”

Liam rolled his eyes. “Do you have beer? Priss.”

“Yeah, fine. Beer it is.”

No one in his house stopped him, even given his lack of pants and a shirt. He’d merely shoved on flannel pyjama bottoms on his way out of his bedroom, caring less of his family’s opinion than he’d ever thought possible. Things like this rarely surprised him anymore.

He passed the cook, whose name he didn’t know, and he passed two housekeepers, whose names he also didn’t know, before making it to the kitchen. As he opened the wine fridge, he shoved his fingers into a bruise above his hip. He smiled. Then he moved to the _regular_ fridge and grabbed two beers for Liam.

He climbed the stairs, realizing he hadn’t seen any of his family members for two days.

He entered his own room—the room that never felt like his—and sank immediately into Liam’s lap, pulling down his boxer-briefs and shoving his mouth onto Liam’s dick. He dropped the bottles onto the mattress without a second thought.

“Oh fuck. You’re enthusiastic,” Liam stuttered out, fisting a hand into Louis’ hair. Louis moved his tongue against the underside of Liam’s cock, feeling it harder beneath his ministrations. Liam thrust up, meeting the back of Louis’ throat with the tip of his dick. “Shit.”

Louis extricated himself for a moment, sparing a wide grin. “Can’t imagine what you mean.” He mouthed back against Liam’s swelling erection, curling a fist to cover the base. “Let’s be honest, it’s just about all I’m good at.”

“But you are _very_ g-good at it,” Liam sputtered, voice catching in his throat. Louis smiled slightly, working his tongue a little sloppily but not lacking in enthusiasm. He gripped Liam harder in his fist, twisting his hand with each thrust.

He trusted, above all things, in his ability to suck cock; he was increasingly thinking it might be his main talent and favorite hobby. He hated himself for fulfilling yet another adolescent cliché, but there was nothing he could do for it except tick that box in the _gay fucktoy_ list of stereotypes. He had finally found something he marginally enjoyed, and somewhere deep inside it felt necessary to continue at all costs. 

Part of him wondered if he should be charging for it, but then he remembered he preferred to fuck poor kids because they tended to be much more eager to please. Plus they almost never stuck around to try to meet his parents. They, much like Louis himself, didn’t want to see the disdain in his stepfather’s eyes or the brittle discomfort clear on his mother’s face.

Louis hollowed out his cheeks and sucked down harder, snaking one hand up to flick Liam’s nipple. “Fuck, you’re like a Hoover with a tongue, I swear to god.”

And that was him in one line: he was an object with a function and he lived to fuck.

He ground down as Liam thrust up over his tongue and into the back of his mouth. He constricted his throat muscles, bearing down as his eyes began to water. His lips were pulled wide, the corners stinging with the strain of it. He blinked back the gathering moisture in his eyes and suppressed his urge to gag. He told himself he enjoyed it.

Liam came quickly, spilling into Louis’ waiting mouth with a guttural grunt. Louis rode him through it, waiting for him to catch his breath. “You’re insatiable, Lou.” And Louis wanted him to shut up _right now,_ so he kissed a sloppy stripe up Liam’s pelvis and abdomen and chest. He bit down on Liam’s nipple, wincing slightly as he heard a ragged gasp. He swallowed down the taste of blood and pulled away.

“Sorry,” Liam whispered, wiping a second spot of blood from an open welt on his chest.

Louis shrugged and dipped his head forward to lick away the remaining drip. “It’s fine.”

“Uh, mate, if you like the taste of blood you should probably consider fucking girls.” Liam grabbed Louis’ hand and pulled him up, settling their chests alongside one another.

“Just once a month though, right?”

Liam laughed. “You’re a little bit twisted.” And Louis wanted to carry that sentiment around in his pocket, wanted to be able to pull it out during times of trouble or confusion: A laughing confession of his deep-seated wrongness was just what Louis needed to hold on to.

“I know.” He shrugged, poking the blooming bruise on his hip. “I don’t think this is dark enough. Wanna give it another go?” he requested with a smile.

_Want to bruise me and pretend I’m someone else? Want to leave a mark on me so I can remember that you were here once? Want to let out your anger on me because I of all people deserve someone finally lashing out? Want to hurt me like you hate me?_

***  
Louis thought maybe his sister had gotten a haircut since he last gave her even an ounce of his full attention. He found her sitting on the diving board in the basement, legs dangling off the side. She trailed her toes in the water and did not glance up at his as he entered the room.

“Charlotte.”

“Lou.”

He stepped into the shallow end of the pool, easing his body in until the water came up to his waist.

“Done impaling yourself on that poor kid’s dick for the day?” she asked, flicking her fringe out of her eyes.

“Who put a cactus up your snatch this morning?” Louis snapped.

She laughed and adjusted the strap of her bathing suit.

“Didn’t take you for someone who cared what I get up to, actually,” he added, listing his way forward, cutting through the water lazily.

“Think I’m the only one left who does.” She sighed and fell back against the diving board, letting her hair splay out around herself.

“How comforting. Just when I was starting to think no one gave a shit.” Louis stopped a short distance from her, marveling at how little they looked alike.

“You’re welcome.” Charlotte threw her arms to the side and let them dangle above the water. Louis’ gaze honed in on the jagged red stripes that littered her arms—the ones he never knew how to ask her about—and he sighed. He felt his bones shudder. “Well, as long as you’re happy,” she added.

“Of course I’m not happy, Lottie.” He was rooted to the spot for reasons he would never be able to identify.

“Yeah, well. Maybe happiness is overrated.” She awkwardly shrugged from her prone position lying on the board.

“Maybe it’s actually everything else that’s overrated, you know?”

Charlotte snorted. “Get off your high fucking horse for one single minute, won’t you?”

“The view’s great from up here, though.”

She sat up. “I hate you so much, sometimes,” she spat, voice gone venomous. “And you don’t even know it.”

“I’m sure there’s a club you can join. You know, or a support group. Make high-end t-shirts with my face and a big red _X_ on them.”

“You’re so flippant all the time. It’s sick. You’re sick.” She lay back down, toes barely grazing the top of the water.

Louis rolled his eyes. _“Sick_ implies there’s a cure for what I am. There’s no cure, only prevention.”

“Yeah, birth control and parental boundaries.”

“Now who’s being flippant?”

“Whatever.”

“You’re too fucking smart for your own good, you know. It’s gotta be hell.”

“You have no idea.”

Louis shrugged even though his sister couldn’t see him. “You think I don’t know I’m nothing but a spoiled little cunt?”

Charlotte huffed. “Then why don’t you do something about it?”

“Like what? Go volunteer with underprivileged youth so they can give my life a renewed sense of purpose? Get my photo taken with some needy orphans who don’t speak English but who will be very grateful? Seems a little exploitative, don’t you think?”

“Fine, whatever. You have an answer for everything.”

“Your dad won’t let me spend his hard-earned money on something so trivial as charity anyway, Lots. You know that.”

“Right, I forgot you have so much trouble defying him.”

“How do you suggest I do that? Slicing my wrists into ribbons? Prancing around in front of the yard guys in booty shorts?” Louis scrubbed his hand through his hair, not caring that he was fucking it up.

“Got any suggestions? The pill-popping seems to be working great for you. Must heighten your stamina in the sack, huh?”

“Wow. You do hate me.”

“Yeah I do,” she breathed, pushing her body back up into a seated position. “I need your help.”

Louis waited, feeling his heart thud behind his sternum. There was only a short list of reasons Lottie might need his help, and none of them were in any way positive. “I’m not driving you to the ghetto so you can buy drugs, mkay.”

“I need you to take me to the doctor.”

“Charlotte,” he said in warning tones.

“No one can know, Lou. That’s why I’m not asking mum and I’m not taking a driver.”

“Lottie, you’re _fourteen.”_

“That’s really why I’d like to be _no longer pregnant,”_ Charlotte responded, clacking her jaw shut.

“Oh my god.” Louis rubbed his face with one palm. “When’s the appointment?”

“Tomorrow at five.”

“Fine. I’ll come up with an excuse.”

“Don’t bother, Lou. No one’s gonna notice we’re gone.”  
***  
Louis supposed it was yet another cliché that he disliked doctors’ offices and waiting rooms. The only part of this situation that wasn’t cliché was the fact that he wasn’t the father of the baby—rather the brother of the recently knocked-up.

He bypassed the shitty magazines and informational brochures in favor of watching his sister attempt not to cry. He halfheartedly slung an arm around her shoulder.

“Who is he, then?”

“I’ll only tell you if you offer to have him brutally murdered for me,” Charlotte responded.

“Like I’d do anything else. I just.” He swallowed. “Is it something I need to look into?”

“Are you trying to ask me if this unwanted fetus is the product of rape, Louis?” She pulled her face into a tight grimace, moving out of his grasp.

“Is it?” Louis asked, throat dry.

“No.” She slumped back into the plastic-backed chair.

“Christ, Lottie. You’re fourteen.”

“Are you lecturing me or just stating a fact?”

“Not even sure anymore.”

“Right. I don’t need a lecture, I just needed a ride.” She shrugged.

“Because you’re too young to drive, you mean?”

“My heart is lightened to hear that you care.”

“Are you okay, Lots? Cut the shit, right.”

“I’ll be fine.”

He had no idea if she was lying, but he knew this was something that couldn’t be solved with the purchase of a new purse or skirt or whatever it was that girls decided they needed. All Louis really knew of Lottie lately was that she liked loud music, frequently cut her arms like they were an art project, and was apparently not a virgin. Louis sighed.

“But you need to hold my hand.”

Louis complied because it was easier than arguing. Going into the examination room and turning his back when Lottie changed into her hospital gown was easier than telling her he was scared to even look at her. He chatted insipidly with the doctor, charming her ceaselessly while he pretended his sister wasn’t being probed and drugged and prodded with sterile machinery.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, holding her hand and stroking her hair. “You’re fine.”  
***  
Louis remained wholly silent on the drive home, except for one question: “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Charlotte drawled.

And that was it. Louis parked in their cobblestone c-curve of a driveway, taking a breath as Lottie exited the car and darted into the house on wobbly legs.

“Fuck.” Louis dropped his forehead to the steering wheel for a moment before shoving his door open. He stormed into the kitchen only to find Charlotte doing exactly what he’d intended to do: chugging straight from a bottle of wine.

“Go to bed, Lah. I’ll bring you a glass and some soup or something,” he offered, shoving a hand into his pocket.

“Fine.” Lottie gripped the bottle around the neck and left the room with a flick of her fringe. Louis wondered where she learned to flip her hair precisely the same way he did.

He heated up something left-over that he found in the fridge, grabbing cutlery and a clean piece of stemware. He had no idea what he was doing, but he figured nothing could be worse than ignoring his sister, probably.

Carrying everything upstairs, he huffed out a heavy breath. He shouldered his way into Lottie’s room and kicked the door shut behind him. “French onion, love,” he murmured. “It’s all that was down there.”

“S’fine.” Charlotte had a pillow hugged to her chest and she was staring at the ceiling. The semi-full wine bottle sat on her bedside table, cork gone missing. “I can drink now I’m not pregnant, you know.” She raised an open hand to Louis, gazing at him expectantly. “Hand it over.”

“What do you want me to do, exactly? I can grab a heating pad or something.” Louis sat on the edge of Charlotte’s bed, placing the food by her hip. He leaned back against her excessive expanse of pillows and looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Just give me the soup. Please.”

He raised the bowl into the air and nudged Lottie with his hip. “My pleasure, little sis.” He handed her the soup and grabbed the television remote with his other hand, turning on the telly.

“Nothing violent, please. I’m feeling poorly.” She grabbed the spoon and began sipping the warm broth gently. Louis rolled his eyes.

“I was planning to watch a reenactment of the Spanish Civil War, actually, Lots.”

Lottie groaned.

“Joking.” He leaned sideways and tucked his feet beneath himself, curling in.

“I know, you fuckwit. Just turn it to e4 and stop acting like you know what you’re doing.”

“Am I supposed to know what I’m doing?” After fulfilling her request, he tucked sideways, considering whether or not he should pet his sister’s hair.

“Well. I mean. I don’t either, so no?”

“Hey, um.”

“I swear to god if you ask how my womb feels I will cut your balls off.” Lottie rolled her eyes and pulled her shoulder away from him, moving her body towards the wall.

“Um, no. I was going to see if you needed a second blanket from the cupboard.”

“Thought that’s what the maids are for. Or some shit.”

“They probably are.” Louis shrugged, again watching Charlotte out of the corner of his eye. He was unused to treating others with this sort of shy, shuffling politeness—normally he was brash and rude, even when turned on low. But this situation made him atypically nervous. He sucked down a whine.

“We’re quite spoiled, aren’t we?”

Louis heaved out a shocked laugh. “Yeah, we are. Your dad bought me a BMW before I was even old enough to drive, after all.”

She chuckled.

“Course, he refused to teach me how to drive it, didn’t he?”

“Well he’s my dad, not yours.”

“You can’t drive yet.”

“Yeah, I know, you already pointed that out.” She handed him a nearly empty bowl of soup and refused to look at him. He set it on her nightstand. “I don’t know whose it was.”

Louis nodded. “That’s okay.” He wasn’t sure if it was okay, actually, but it seemed like something a normal person would say. Something kind in the midst of a storm of bad tidings.

“I _know that_ I just wanted to explain why I asked you to come with me, you know. It’s because I don’t know.”

“You could have asked me anyway.”

“As some kind of twisted bonding experience? That’s dark even for us.” She glanced at him quickly, quirking a brow.

“I’m your brother.”

“You’re a shitty big brother.”

“M’sorry.”

“No, you’re not sorry. But thanks for going with me today.”

“Sure. It’ll be the highlight of my memoir.”

“I thought you were functionally illiterate.”

“I’ll have someone ghost-write it. And also I skip my classes because they’re dull, not because I don’t understand the material. I do know how to read.”

“Whatever. I won’t sign off on my portion of the memoir unless you change my name.”

“Maybe I’ll just wait til you’re dead and write anything I want about you. Slander and libel. Out-and-out lies.”

“You are ice-cold, Lou.”

They stayed silent for a long collection of minutes as night gathered around them. Charlotte’s breathing got deeper and slower, and Louis refrained from petting her hair. He had never really understood what it was to be needed—had never learned how to be essential to anybody—and he wondered if he was any _good_ at it. He wondered if it was something that people grew into: reliability, responsibility. As he covered his sister with her duvet, he thought perhaps he was passable at being an actual human being, but it was a theory he had no intention of testing. 

Instead he listened to the quiet thrum of the air conditioning mingled with his sister’s steady breaths. He stared at the small notch of light that filtered in through her bedroom window, just underneath the bottom of the curtain. Her room was even more unfamiliar than his own, just as unfamiliar to him as she had become. His gut felt bottomed-out at the thought.

He did what he always did when he had no idea how to proceed: he closed his eyes and let the future come.


End file.
